I Have In Fact Been Abducted by Aliens... So There

The following is completely stolen from CarolynOnline, who writes one of the many blogs I can't seem to read anymore. I know Carolyn, in a real life kind of way, and yet, I barely visit her site. I think blogging has lost its charm for me, or perhaps I have lost my charm for blogging, or maybe I am lazy or busy or distracted or totally washed up....

Kids Update: The GFYO is seeing ghosts. Ghost dogs, ghost people. When he was two, he saw a "worker" coming up from the basement, a "worker" who hung around for a while, for him, in the living room of our 100+ year old house. When he was five, he announced, from the backseat and out of nowhere, that "when you die, you just start over." He told me today that the people "who disappear" don't speak to him, but they just "come and walk away." Then he said he didn't want to talk about it. My father says he has an active imagination. He does, but I'm convinced that he, like me, like my mother, has something none of us can explain. (PS: Syd. Annie. I knew you'ld be in touch...) Meanwhile, Rory needs a break -- from soccer, school, overly aggressive/super needy friends -- and I'm giving it to her, as best I can. Bridget will be one of the last girls to get boobs -- and a cell phone -- and I am not sure which bothers either of us most.

Me Update: I'm gonna be run out of the Small Town by the soccer gestapo because I suggested (in an email that used the words "dude" and "really") that being 3 minutes late to a pre-game warm-up was a bit severe. Granted my daughter was there on time, but she was one of five who were, and so I figured I had numbers on my side, which I did.... privately. I am a loudmouth, but (I'd like to think) of the good kind. Doesn't mean I don't die a little for sticking my neck out -- when no one else does.

More Me Update: Oh! And I started a fight with the Small Town over playground equipment at the Little School. Here's what I learned: a strongly worded letter will get you a meeting, but being funny and organized with facts in said meeting? It will get you further. Screw you, internet: the world changes when faces see faces. Also: lawyers? Parents who hire them? Please! You have created an unhealthy, physical play environment over one broken arm.

Even More Me Update: Today, I couldn't write the regular column I've been writing these last few months for a burgeoning digital site. I have a cold, I spent too long today trying to fix the car (my father in law busted) (not my fault -- at last), but mostly, I'm in this rut of "it's all been said." I should note that the Small Town newspaper has stolen two of my published ideas and ran them as features, and it irritates me. A lot. It also irritates me that the mom who writes the "mom" column for Small Town newspaper uses a fake name. Small Town can be deadly, I know, and I respect this broad, but bravery is a trait I cling to, desperately, with (mostly) horrible results. (See: soccer gestapo.)

Swear this is the last Me Update: Two of my essays will be included in a forthcoming collection about motherhood, published by a real publisher, that features lots of super educated women with tons of opinions and an amazing editor who loves democracy and collaboration. I mostly delete the back and forth wikkid smaht emails: over-thinking and smartypantsness are two traits I try to avoid. Creativity, however? I am at the beginning (for the 15 thousandth time) of my first novel. I have written ten pages -- each one page long, ten attempts, all saved separately, each a little fit of a start. Creativity, imagination, dreaming up a story and characters: these are traits I want and don't seem to have. I think it's time to give up the dream.

The Kid aka: Husband Update: We reached sixteen years this month -- somewhat of a miracle considering the divorce pandemic that's taken over the Small Town (rumors of swinging! again!) and the fact that he remains a neo-con blog obsessed conservative. We never seem to get the chance to celebrate our anniversaries: he's traveling through Europe lately, but mostly, we are almost always completely broke when the date arrives -- damn kids! I stuff my jealously about his international adventures into my not-quite mom jeans, while I worry in the "eggs in one basket, me with no basket at all" kind of way. I rely on him so much... too much? He's still the cutest dude in town.

Dog Update: I am not a dog person, nor a dog trainer. Let's just leave it at that.

Yeah, so.... there you go.

So This Man at Target...

I've thought that crazy stuff just happened around me because I was looking for it. Sometimes, I keep my eyes wide open to funny or madness or just plain weird, so I figured the crazy didn't so much come to me as I beckoned it to come.

But I haven't been looking for it lately (and I can't really explain why that is) (though, I should think about it some), and sure enough, the whole world has been seeming perfectly sane and... dull.

Which is why the man at Target speaking very.loudly to multiple red-shirted helpers almost didn't catch my attention at all. I was deep in the snack aisle trying to find something both palatable and non-crappy for the Three Short Drunk People. I was also mentally three aisles ahead: the last of the school supplies loomed.

It was "jelly" that I heard first, mostly because I just enjoy that word: it's cute. But when he announced, "No, not the jelly you eat on your toast, but the kind you use for sexual pleasure," that last bit sounding more like "for sehhkzhual pleahzuhrrrrr," I knew I was in for some crazy or funny or both.

Overwhelmed by contact-embarrassment, I grabbed two boxes of fruit leathers (good!) and a crate of Hostess Cupcakes (better!) and tore out around the corner for a look see.

Nothing. No one.

Depressed, I grabbed a couple sacks of Chex Mix for good measure, then I wandered toward the cleaning aisle, mostly to make myself feel better in the domestically-skilled department. I was saving the dreaded school supplies for last.

"Thing is," he said, possibly through a bullhorn, "I just can't find the stuff, and yeah, you're a man, so you know..."

Mark in my ears (you can't forget a voice like that), I sprinted back to the gift card section and loitered there, inconspicuously of course, hoping for some visual contact.

Bingo!

He was large. His tee-shirt was stained. His jeans were held up by what I think was a bungee cord. He was cheerful, but not in the bowl full of jelly kind of way. In the "get me the KY" kind of way. He was unabashedly happy, without any insecurity, and as he squeaked away in his black orthopedic sneakers, I almost wanted to high-five him.

Today, the weird showed up all on its own. And for some reason, it makes me feel wildly better about everything. Thank you, KY guy. Carry on, dude.

Because

Words fail.

This, I offer.

WHA? You call that a storm? Plus the root of a rant

Earl: you are such a tease.

I got nostalgic and mildly storm-chasing lunatic-ish here.

I got very nostalgic and mildly weepy here.

I remain perfectly, typically loudmouth here. Which is here.

RIGHT HERE.

As in: what is the percentage of parents, whose kids participate in Labor Day multi-state soccer tournaments, who believe their children are World Cup bound?

Take into account that THIS parent? Um....Yeah.

Wow. I had no idea.

I think I just found some serious blog fodder. Honestly, this kind of soccer is like Lohan for writer's block.

WOOT WOOT!

Cure JM -- Vote TODAY

Today is the last day to help earn $250,000 for the Cure JM fund from the Pepsi Refresh Everything campaign.

Vote here -- it's quick, easy, and will likely be the best thing you do all day.

You can also:

(1) Send a text vote: Text 100850 to PEPSI (73774) (standard text messaging rate apply)
(2) Use the Facebook app: http://bit.ly/CureJMonFB

To learn more about this disease and one family's personal account, visit Kevin.

Tell him I say hi.

Yet Another Reason to Rethink Franzen vs Picoult

You want some real chick lit, the kind with bull's balls, the kind of stuff that women/mom's write when no one is looking, then you should read our book.

This is cut and pasted from an email I sent CarolynOnline tonight answering hers that asked, "What are you doing?":

"Deadline for feature pushed twelve hours UP. Awesome? No. It.is.not.

Babysat some kids today -- nanny trouble for the mom. Five kids, all good, but all day.

Too hot to weed. Weeds taking over. Cringe when I walk outside.

PTO prez meeting lasted 2 hours when it could have taken 15 minutes.

Lonely for adult conversation much?

Can not seem to keep house organized, clean, with food in it.

Have not showered. Will not tell you how long.

More driving to soccer -- too far, too late in the day. Uncool to bring roadies.

Screaming match with GFYO. Banned him from everything.

Keep thinking all will be OK when school starts.

Know this is a fool's business -- to think such things: school, ok, etc.

PS: Might make this a blog post. Fucking verbatim."

Ch-ch-changes

Something strange is afoot in the House of Picket.

Rory has asked me twice (in as many days) for a hairbrush. She has been turning down the corners of a clothes catalog. She tried on a dress while on vacation and today spent a solid 8 hours with a best (girl) friend without 1) breaking a bone, or 2) requiring sutures.

I am not sure if it's the three days of rain and maybe some weird disease from all the mold that surely is growing in the petri dish of my basement, but I think the tomboy is getting more girly less tomboyish.

I got an inkling last March that things might change. One of her friends started making plans for their co-Halloween costume (it's never too early to prep for the quest for candy): he'd be the monkey and she'd be the banana. This seemed perfectly apropos until I noticed that he blushed when he talked to her, and that she kinda did when I asked her about it. Suddenly, the whole monkey/banana thing took on a life (in my head) of its own, but I get it. When I was in third grade, an anonymous suitor left cash in my desk for two months. CASH! It was usually ones but once, I found a crumpled twenty in there and the teacher stood in front of the classroom and demanded that the giver confess. He did -- but more than 10 years later at a bar during Thanksgiving break.

The thing is, as much as I knew someday someone might be um, well leaving cash for her sounds completely wrong but you know what I mean, I still feel a little sad about it. Granted I wish she wouldn't scar up her knees (as much as mine) or take as many risks (as I did, when I was her age), but I am completely down with the messy, tom-boy look (still). Granted, a child (or grownup) who leaves the house appearing less like she just rolled out of bed is a potentially good thing, but still. Still. Sigh.

I never anticipated milestones like these.

I Don't Even Know What to Call It, This Fat

Please tell me that I did not invent this unwelcome middle-aged new-to-me phenom. Please tell me that I alone have not discovered this new…

fat...this...

backassfat.

Tell me that it is known the world 'round. Tell me that in Japan "backassfat" translates as Sweet Dumpling Descended Like Bird On Buttocks, or that in Germany, they call it the Fraulein Strudel Doodle. Maybe it's poetic and cute in other countries and just.another.thing that happens to women.

I already know about our hijanes, our muffineffintops, but now? Now, I have to contend with this... this? Tell me that I alone have not invented backassfat (or maybe I should call it lowerbackfatmeetsassfat).

Don't I have enough to worry about already? Now I have to name my own fat?

I wonder sometimes if I didn't make this horrible thing happen to me. After so many years of standing both hands on hips, all mean and bossy, maybe I literally forced all the chub down into these weird lumps above my ass. Maybe I forced all the chub into lumps on either sides of my once sexy (?), baby-making (!) hips because I am a total bitch who put her hands like that. Who stood (stands?) like a broad, like that.

Maybe that's the reason.

I was on an Island last week in a I can barely type this bathing suit, yelling at ten children to surf safer, to get away from the.omigodthe.fire, and to "stop eating all the chips!"

Want to know where my two hands were? They were firmly on my hips, which is, after all, the universal sign of "I mean business" and perhaps the real reason for the backassfat.

Who knows? This might work for me. Maybe I'll just keep pushing the fat all the fucking way down until I have giant, Guinness-record-worthy gargantuan toes.

A girl can dream...